This quietly devastating story by Lee Solon reminded us of how we like to console ourselves with the title of the advice manual The Good Enough Parent. Just the title. Someday maybe we’ll read the whole book.
If you have a moment, listen to Lee’s lovely reading of his piece. It’s a fine example of how satisfying it can be to hear an author read their own work.
Daisy attacked a baby squirrel in the backyard today. Nick and I pulled her away before she killed it, but not before she whipped it around in her mouth and flung it against the big oak tree, leaving it squealing in terror with what looked like a broken leg. We think it had probably fallen out of the oak, though, so it may already have been hurt when Daisy got it.
Daisy has been sleeping in Nick’s bed, his emotional support animal while he goes through everything he goes through. She doesn’t embrace the role, always whining when we carry her into his room for the night. But it’s hard to take her protests seriously, given her size and floppy ears and puffy white coat and fear of most things that breathe or move.
Despite Daisy’s reluctance, Nick takes great comfort from her. Which is one reason today’s episode was so distressing. That and the visible and audible pain of a defenseless creature.
Nick gathered his friends over Zoom for an emergency consultation. I looked up what to do online. I didn’t want either of us putting our hands on a wounded animal, even a baby, though I would have if that proved necessary. I also didn’t want to make its injury worse than it already was. But it was in our backyard, at the base of a 70-foot oak tree it had no hope of ever climbing again. It couldn’t stay there.
We left it alone for an hour to see if its mother would come down. Daisy the baby killer stood at attention at the back door, whimpering, wanting desperately to go out and finish the job. I prepared to call Animal Control. Nick stayed in his room and let his friends play the role Daisy had, at least for the moment, abandoned. Thank god he’s chosen good kids to surround himself with.
Yesterday was another in a string of frustrating days for him, the missed school assignments mounting, the anxiety spiraling, the hole deepening despite all our efforts to keep him from sinking. More his mother’s efforts than mine, truth be told, since she has much more patience for middle school algebra than I do. My attempts to help usually end with us shouting at each other and Nick retreating behind a slammed door.
His hug sessions with Daisy are both salve and crutch, a source of procrastination and then relief from the emotional avalanche that procrastination triggers. He so often gets overwhelmed by life, by the world, by the weight of everything. He huddles at the base of a tree he feels he has no hope of climbing. His mom and I believe he will climb it, but that won’t matter until he believes it too.
The squirrel’s mother didn’t come. The baby, leg still unnaturally bent, managed to crawl under the shadow of a rock, knowing enough by instinct to make itself hidden from predators above. I called Animal Control, but got a recorded message that said to call the Humane Society if you need help with an animal in distress. “Humane” felt much better than “Control” and I was relieved when a very earnest young woman asked what our emergency was. I said it’s not an emergency and described our situation.
“It sure does sound like an emergency,” she said.
“Yeah, I suppose it is for the squirrel,” I said.
After a moment, she directed me to drive it to their animal hospital 20 minutes up the road in San Mateo. I said I prefer not to handle it.
“Oh,” she said, and in another pause I heard her recognition that she was talking to someone who’d rather let a creature suffer and die than do something unpleasant. Or maybe I was only hearing that in my own mind, not hers. In any case, she took our address and said an officer would come as soon as possible, and to please call back if the animal passes away before the officer arrives.
Nick lined a shoebox with paper towels and a few nuts. “The nuts have to be unsalted,” he said. One of his friends had told him that. He placed it on its side near the squirrel, which was pressed against the rock and breathing rapidly. It showed no interest in climbing in. Daisy watched us from the back door, jealous we were playing with her toy while she was not.
It wasn’t long before a man showed up from the Humane Society and met us out back. He gently lifted and examined the squirrel, and said yes it was definitely a juvenile and definitely injured. He placed it in a box and said their wildlife expert would take a look at it. That was ambiguous enough that I didn’t want to ask the next question, because I didn’t want Nick to hear the answer.
Later, he lay on the floor with Daisy, trying to hold her while she played tug of war with his hair. She seemed less goofy and innocent doing that now. When I asked if he still wanted her on his bed tonight, he answered with a wordless and solemn nod that bespoke a new awareness of what Daisy believes she is, which is neither a pet nor a crutch.
I have decided I will not call the Humane Society to follow up on our squirrel. I’d rather imagine it in a tiny little cast, convalescing in a predator-free habitat until it’s healthy enough to be released back into the wild.
I’d rather imagine it growing into a strong and confident squirrel, making its way in the world and finding a new tree to scale and call home. That’s how I want this story to end.
Tall Trees